Dora's Tale
by Emily-in-the-glass
Summary: Marilla, it may be a dreadful thing to say, but honestly, I like Davy better than Dora, for all she's so good. The story of Dora Keith of Green Gables. Please R & R!
1. Introduces Green Gables

Late autumn, when the trees were leafless and the fields were sere and brown, was the only time Green Gables could truly be seen from the Avonlea road. It was set back a quarter of a mile into the woods, on a tidy yard reached by a long lane of wild rose bushes. Mrs. Lynde proclaimed it the loneliest place in the world, for "goodness knows trees aren't much company." But the inmates of Green Gables had never thought so. Matthew Cuthbert was as shy as a forest hare when he had been alive, so that the situation of his home suited him. Marilla Cuthbert was austere and restrained, much like the quiet, foliage-enfolded, gray-green farmhouse. As for Anne Shirley, the redheaded orphan the Cuthberts had adopted five years ago - she could be likened to the wild pink roses or the impetuous brook that ran behind the house, a seeker and giver of companionship wherever she lived, thrilled by the whispers of the maples and the dance of the birches, and the laughter of her friends on the red sandstone steps.

She was perched on those selfsame steps of an evening at sunset. Her book fallen to the ground, but it had grown too dark to read. She was watching a streak of gold on the horizon with her hands clasped under her chin. She listened eagerly for the rumble of Marilla's buggy, but her thoughts were far away. She had confessed her ecstasy to Gilbert Blythe earlier that afternoon:

"I am fated to care for twins all my life, I suppose." she said merrily. "But there is nothing so _nice_ as to care for someone who needs you. I didn't have anyone to care for me for ever so long, you know - eleven whole years until I came to live at Green Gables. I'm so glad that Marilla is taking Davy and Dora, and I will try my best to influence them for good, even if it is only for a little while."

"You'll do it splendidly." Gilbert averred sincerely.

"I do hope so - I am especially eager to meet Davy Keith. Marilla is afraid he will be such a responsibility because he is a boy, and very naughty, but the greater the trial, the greater the reward, don't you think? I intend to win him over." Anne said with a defiant toss of her red curls.

"Speaking of naughty boys, is Anthony Pye causing you as much grief as ever?" Gilbert laughed. He was sorry that Anne had to cope with Anthony Pye's misbehaviour but he could never help roaring with laughter over Anthony's pranks in the Avonlea schoolhouse.

"Yes, he poured ice-cold milk down Aurelia Clay's neck last week and sent her shrieking during arithmetic." Gilbert smiled wryly; he had once employed similar tactics on damsels demure in his irrepressible youth. "I kept him in at recess and tried to talk to him very earnestly about behaving like a gentlemen, but - "Anne's eyes welled up limpidly "he will never put stock by anything I say because I'm a girl."

Anne recalled vividly her arrival at Green Gables as she waited in the dusk. She had been eleven years old, orphaned, and neglected all her life hitherto, and Green Gables was a meed of happiness ever afterward. Matthew had brought her home from Bright River through a wondrous white world of spring blossoms. But her first evening here had not been happy. A stormy line echoed poignantly in her mind: "Nobody ever did want me! You don't want me because I'm not a boy!"

It seemed that the trial had not paled with time. Anne bit her lip, feeling it was rather unjust that Anthony Pye had antagonized her before he knew her simply because she was a girl. Anne could never bear to be judged only on the outside.

"Oh! Suppose Davy Keith thinks boys are better than girls, too," she said tremulously to the slim white birch standing out amongst the shadows. "It seems to me that I can't bear the suspense much longer. Dear God, please let him like me for _me_."

Anne would have wallowed in fervent thought for much longer, but in that moment the Cuthbert's grey nag pattered into the lane. Anne raced down to the gate to greet them. A smile spread naturally over her face as she caught sight of Davy's snub nose and eyes of mischievious, sparkling blue. She lifted the twins out, Davy clinging affectionately to her with a hearty hug and a loud smack on her cheek. "I'm Mr. Davy Keith." he announced. He was grinning with cordiality and Anne's doubts were forever vanquished.

Davy tugged at her right arm with his sticky paws and pullled towards the house. Anne did not have a moment to pay much attention to the quiet little girl whose hand she held absently in her left.


	2. Introduces Dora

Dora entered the Green Gables kitchen, which was streaked with a faint golden bar from the west window. It was too dark for Dora to see clearly, but she felt that she was in a very clean place. She wiped her boots daintily on the mat, and went forth to hang her hat on a nail. She could not hear a single fly buzzing, and that lovely, warm aroma that wafted the air was not faint mould she had always smelt in Mrs. Sprott's kitchen.

Davy was tugging on her and had let go, impatiently streaming towards Marilla's stove. "C'mon Dora! I'm so hungry I could eat an elephant! You wouldn't understand," he noted her alabaster features and wrinkled up his nose with scorn, so that he looked like a gargoyle "'cause girls are never as hungry as boys."

As Marilla shooed him away, he deliberately pushed Dora into the path of a red-headed damsel bearing a hot soup tureen. Anne let out a shriek and the blue tureen of Green Gables nearly met a calamitous fate on the kitchen floor, but Dora merely stepped an inch to her right. She was considerably unruffled: not a single strand of her hair had fallen out of place, and her mouth still bore its sweet, upturned expression. Six years of being Davy Keith's twin had taught her to evade disaster expertly. Anne, who had never witnessed such composure and could not comprehend it, dismissed the incident from her mind and settled down at the supper table.

Dora, too, seated herself between Davy and Marilla, smoothing her skirt before she sat down. Davy chattered ceaselessly, so Marilla was busy reproving him while Anne's eyes shone with laughter at his stories. Dora was grateful that he was there to talk for both of them, leaving her to enjoy her sensible platter of boiled pork and greens. Dora thought that she would rather like to learn to make boiled pork and greens. She didn't want her children to survive off mutton the way the Wiggins did.

Marilla returned to the table with a plump, golden brown cake - the prettiest and plummiest cake Dora had ever seen in her life. She could barely remember the last time she had had cake, years ago when her mother was well. She uttered a small "thank you" when Marilla handed both Davy and herself a slice.

"I'm so hungry I ain't got time to eat p'litely," Davy was saying between large mouthfuls. "Dora ain't half as hungry as I am. Look at all the ex'cise I took on the road here. That cake's awful nice and plummy. We haven't had any cake at home for ever'n ever so long, 'cause mother was too sick to make it and Mrs. Sprott said it was as much as she could do to bake our bread for us. And Mrs. Wiggins never puts any plums in her cakes. Catch her! Can I have another piece?"

Davy's chatter was magnetic. Dora thought proudly that Anne and Marilla were listening cheerfully to it - surely they would like to have Davy and herself at Green Gables, after all. Everyone always liked Davy. As for herself, she would try her best to be the as little trouble to Anne and Marilla as posible.

She was lost in Davy's presence, when she suddenly felt her cake snatched out of her very finger tips. She had barely lifted it up to taken a bite! She watched Davy cram it into his mouth. Suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes: that afternoon, Mrs. Sprott had pushed her gruffly into the hands of Miss Marilla Cuthbert, and she had choked back her tears so that she would not spoil her face. "Mind you be a good, pretty little girl. No one's got time for a little girl who ain't good and pretty." Mrs. Sprott had hissed at her. It was so hard to be a little girl.

"Dora will sleep with me and you can put Davy in the west gable." Marilla announced.

Dora went upstairs with Marilla gratefully. She did not want to be alone in a new place. She let Marilla help her undress and climb into the high, black bed with a thick feather spread. When Marilla returned later that night, Dora was sleeping peacefully with her golden curls arranged neatly on the hard pillows.

She was so still that Marilla hardly knew there was another presence on her bed that night. Rachel had warned Marilla that children always kicked, but not once did the tiny warm body beside her stir or shake the covers. Only halfway through the night was she startled to find a chubby hand clasping hers, mumbling, "You're awf'lly sensible, Marilla. I know you'll take care of us."


	3. The Ladies' Aid Meeting

Dora liked to go to church. She had already decided that she liked going to church with Marilla and Anne far better than she had with the Wiggins, who whispered loudly and ripped the hymnals apart. It was almost like things were when - ever so long ago, Mother was well. Her shoes were shiny and her sash was tied on straight, and she had a crisp, new white Bible and a glistening silver cent for collection.

Davy squirmed in the seat and contorted his neck to see their new neighbours, but Dora mildly noted her surroundings without moving much. She liked the minister with the kind brown eyes who spoke so gently, and she had never heard such a lovely soprano as the rosy cheeked, dark haired girl who sang "Lead, kindly light." A miniature version of the girl, about Dora's age, with merry black eyes and be-ribbonned black ringlets, joined in very sweetly on the chorus. Dora smiled gently at her and then, hearing a gasp of delight across the aisle, smiled at the chestnut haired boy who had emitted the sound. He had the most sober face of any boy she had seen, completely opposite from Davy's impishness. He had fine, chiselled features broken by a very gentle smile: no dimples, no hint of mockery. Dora glanced timidly at him again in awe, then sat up straighter and crossed her ankles.

The service was almost over and Dora looked eagerly to the black haired girl for the final hymn - and covertly glanced at the boy to see if he was in anticipation, too. Suddenly, the girl in front of them was shaking her lace dress and shrieking hysterically:

"Ow. . .mommer. . .mommer. . .ow. . .take it off. . .ow. . .get it out. . .ow. . .that bad boy put it down my neck. . .ow. . .mommer. . .it's going further down. . .ow. . .ow. . .ow..."

Davy guiltily put his hands in his pockets and Dora's cheeks crimsoned. She did not dare look at the boy across the aisle again. What might he think of them? Oh, why couldn't she have one service in peace?

She went home and hung up her pretty white sateen, reflecting thankfully that at least Davy had not put the caterpillar down her dress and ruined it with grass stains. Then again, _she_ would _never_ have conducted herself as Lauretta White did even if she did have a worm creeping down her back.

--

"The Ladies' Aid is meeting here today." Marilla told her when she woke up on Tuesday morning. "I want you to change into your white dress, and you'll help me get the tea."

Dora complied blissfully. She loved to wear that white dress. She slipped it over her shining tresses and curtsied demurely in front of the hall mirror. Then she let Marilla wrap a large apron over it all so that she - even greater of delights - could help beat egg whites for Marilla's plum puffs.

Soon Marilla had her folding the dough into neat triangles, reflecting that she had never taught an easier pupil. Dora's nimble fingers seemed to know the art of fashioning pastry as if she had done it for all of Marilla's fifty years. Davy, on the other hand, left a trail of flour all over the floor and formulated three very misshapen dough-balls on the counter, ruining half Marilla's batter. Marilla thought better of enlisting his aid, and sent him outside to make mud-pies. He was better off wasting mud, than eggs and white sugar.

The Ladies' Aid meeting was in full swing when Mrs. Rachel Lynde arrived, out of breath, apologetic. "I wouldn't have been late to an Aid meeting if Thomas hadn't gone and taken a sick spell." she told Marilla indignantly. "It's horribly inconvenient of him to feel poorly, that's what."

"Rachel's sore because her husband dared to get ill without consulting her. She's always had him under her thumb." Mrs. Harmon Andrews whispered aside to the lavishly dressed newcomer, Mrs. H. B. Donnell.

"He did feel better after a dose of castor oil," Mrs. Lynde remonstrated, "and wasn't I glad! I wouldn't have missed the missionary quilt for the world. White Sands has got one off to Africa last month and I do so want to have more squares than they do."

"I suppose a square more or less would mean a great deal to the heathens," Marilla said crisply.

"I knew you'd be of the same opinion. Lawful heart, Marilla," her eyes suddenly fell on Dora, "is that Mary Keith's child? She very pretty and sweet, that's for certain. Did anyone ever see such perfect ringlets? And hair as gold as wheat. Come here, child, let me have a look at you."

Dora slid off the anitmacassar and curtsied before the good lady. All of Avonlea seemed to be watching her. Mrs. Lynde nodded her approval. "Sit with me, dear," she said. "Did anyone teach you how to sew? Pass me those patchwork scissors - we'll start with thick strips for the log cabin pattern."

Dora sewed a neat row proudly and listened to the ladies talk. She loved Mrs. Lynde and she adored the Reverend Mrs. Allan, who wore the loveliest blue dress, but she wanted most to please the lady with the sharp black eyes, who she heard called "Mrs. Barry." She was the mother of the merry, black-haired choir girls. Dora was disappointed to hear that Mrs. Barry had not brought her youngest daughter.

"I wanted to bring Minnie-May with me today, but Minnie-May took a whim to visit her cousins in Carmody. Her father aids and abets her, so he drove her there straightway this afternoon." she told a stately, silver-haired woman whom Dora had seen in the same pew as the chestnut-curled boy. "Minnie May is a stubborn child - not at all like Diana. Diana does whatever she's told. Why, when Diana was a little girl - she had got her head filled with queer fancies about some haunted woods and ghosts and nonsense - but I told her little girls shouldn't tell fibs, and she obeyed me."

"I wish I knew how to tell Paul to curb his imagination," the older lady answered. Dora realized that the chestnut haired boy was Paul Irving, whom Anne praised daily and whose head Davy wanted to punch. "He is fanciful alright - he rambles on about the strangest nonsense to Mary Joe, which I don't like at all - one shouldn't talk so much to the french, you know. I expect Mary Joe doesn't really understand what he's talking about - although I'm not sure if I understand it, myself." Mrs. Irving chuckled. "That boy will grow up with people thinking he's 'not all there.' "

It was a very terrible thing to be "not all there." Dora did not like the slander to Paul, even from his own grandmother. There were other women in the Ladies' Aid circle who seemed to nod in agreement with Mrs. Irving.

"That's what comes of Yankee blood," Mrs. Barry said solemnly. "The Yankees are so queer."

"How dare you call Paul queer!" Dora exclaimed passionately. Her cheeks were flushed and she was very excited for her, but no one seemed to noticed. "Why, Paul Irving is the brightest boy in his class! I heard Anne tell Davy so, yesterday." she tried to tell them. She was really so quiet, though, that adults seldom heard her, and Mrs. Irving had gone on to tell Mrs. Barry about how Stephen Irving had come to marry a Yankee.

Dora dropped her needle in frustration. She went to the door: she did not like to be in a room of women who twitted Paul. Davy winked at her with a mischievious grin.

"I dare you to walk the pigpen fence."

"Paul Irving would never make his sister walk a pigpen fence," Dora retorted.

Davy seethed. He would never hear the end of Paul Irving. "You're just a 'fraid cat. I bet Paul Irving wouldn't like a girl who's a 'fraid cat. Most boys don't." he said authoritatively.

Dora got on trepidly. She was really very balanced, and it annoyed Davy to see her moving so steadily. There was no fun in that.

"The pig's coming atcha -you better walk faster, Dora, or he'll charge right into your fence!"

Dora turned around to see if what Davy said was true, and lost her foothold, falling gracelessly into the pen. It was a low fall and Dora wasn't hurt, but the Green Gables pig, who was a rather slow moving, timid beast, was so frightened by this addition into his pen that he leaped right over Dora and scurried to the opposite corner of the pen. His hindfoot scraped the corner of Dora's dress.

"My dress is all ruined," Dora wailed as she got up. This was her first pretty dress is so long; she could not help it.

"I'll pump water on it to clean it," Davy said, mollified. He could imagine the look on Anne's face when she saw Dora in this state, and he didn't like it.

Dora stood under the pump and Davy pumped rigourously. Soon she was drenched, but it was to no avail, and Dora, snivelling, ran inside before Davy could stop her.

She didn't care that Mrs. Rachel Lynde was gaping at her in horror. Goodness knew what else Davy would do to her if she stayed outside! Marilla took her upstairs and left her to redress. When they took her old clothes off the bed, Dora thought she saw something move.

"I'll wait here, Marilla." she said quietly.

Marilla went back to the Aids' and Dora crept into the west gable. Davy was lying face down on his bed, sobbing violently.

"I know you did it, Davy Keith! You've gone and put a toad in mine and Marilla's bed! You are the naughtiest boy in the world. I wish I had Paul Irving for my brother instead, Anne loves him better'n you anyhow."

"Aw, shut your mouth." Davy growled.

"That's just... _rude,_ Davy. Marilla's so awf'lly good to us, and this is what you do to her! How would you like it if she got angry and sent us back to the Wiggins?" Dora demanded.

Davy got up and looked at her. "I'd ruther play with the Wiggins' than you! I HATE YOU, Miss Priss." he shouted.

Two great big tears welled up in Dora's eyes. "Mother said we were to be good to each other, cause I'm all you've got" she said wistfully.

Davy was suddenly penitent, too. His mother had told him to take care of his sister, but Dora hadn't made much occasion for him to protect her. She was born knowing how to take care of herself. He looked at her little figure in the doorway, and suddenly sprang over to give her wild kiss and bear hug.

"I'm sorry, Dora, honest I am." Davy weeped over and over again.

He held onto her for a while and then Dora extracted herself somewhat stiffly. She was not so emotional.

"I - I - won't tell Marilla about the toad." she whispered jerkily.

With such magnamity from Dora, Davy knew he was forgiven.


	4. Minnie May Barry

Anne Shirley fled through the porch and into the house, passing Dora without a word. Dora heaved a sigh from her station on the verandah swing. She had waited there for most of the afternoon so that she might catch Anne upon her entrance, an exercise that sorely tried Davy's patience. He went off to the barn muttering that girls were no good to play with. Dora did not agree with him, but she did not tell Davy so: she wanted very badly to have a little girl to play with.

Presently, Dora heard Anne's voice float out from the east gable window -speaking as if she were singing, but without music. Dora wondered dubiously if she hadn't better go up and ask Anne now -

_"Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,  
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,  
High in her chamber up a tower to the east  
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;  
Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray --_

"Why, Dora!" Anne exclaimed at the trembling little figure who had appeared on her threshold. She halted her waltz, flinging dress in her hands on the floor. Her hair was flaming and riotous, and her eyes were an unearthly, starry green. Dora shrank back.

"I want to ask you - ask you..." Poor Dora tried to look up courageously, but Anne Shirley of the radiant hair and face was tall, so very tall and slender and intimidating! "...ask ... if I could go... I mean, if you would let me come... " Dora stammered and stared nervously at Anne's frilled organdy on the rug.

"Why, of course you come can watch me get ready for the evening!" Anne cried warmly, intercepting Dora's gaze at her dress. She dashed the garment up and flung Dora into a mad little dance, whirling her about the room breathlessly. "Do you know, when I was a little girl, I always longed to watch the grown-ups get ready for a party - pull gossamer gowns over shining tresses, albeit mine own are red - "

"I thought you were going to Orchard Slope tonight, not to a party." Dora said wonderingly, when Anne set her down.

"Alas, it is but an A. V. I. S. meeting I am fated to attend, and not a fairy revelry..."

"Anne, will you take me Orchard Slope?" Dora blurted out. "Marilla says I could play with Minnie May Barry if her mother will let us."

"Oh, but isn't that Diana coming up the lane!" Anne tore from the window past Dora and downstairs again, exclaiming as she flew out the door. "Diana, whatever is wrong? I was just on my way over."

Dora heaved another sigh, and trudged down the stairs with a sinking heart.

Anne and a bevy of her friends were pacing the yard gate, arms flailing, shrill voices wailing "But he's gone and painted it _**blue**_!" Dora knew Anne had forgotten her in view of greater trauma. A tear rolled silently down her cheek: but ten feet away, Anne was weeping so profusely she could be heard from here to Orchard Slope.

Diana Barry, running indoors to fetch a fresh hankerchief, almost tripped over Dora Keith. She blinked the tears out of her large dark eyes, and looked kindly at Dora.

"Are you alright, Dora, dear?" Diana asked gently. "I haven't hurt you, have I?" She reached out to wipe away Dora's tears, but seeing her drenched hankerchief, she laughed. She brushed Dora's cheeks with her fingers instead.

Dora shook her head peremptorily. Here was a grown-up she wasn't afraid of. Diana rose to go, and Dora ventured shyly, "Oh, Diana, could you tell me - if Minnie May - "

"Minnie May is down in the spruce barrens, playing by herself. Of course you must go and play with her - she's dreadful lonesome, she's taken to talking to trees and such," Diana finished with another rosy laugh.

Dora tripped down Lover's Lane and through what Anne Shirley called "The Haunted Wood", unshaken by any fear of phantoms. She found Minnie May Barry in the stumped clearing that used to be Idlewild.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come to Green Gables!" Minnie May hailed her joyously. "Mother says I should have a little girl to play with, and there are no other children near us. I used to play with Sally Bell - these woods belong to her uncle - but she moved up the road to stay with an aunt when her cousin got married. Stella Fletcher is one of my part'cular friends, but she lives all the way on the hill by the graveyard. Her cousin is courting Anne, though, so she can come with him to our side of the pond pretty of'en. Anyhow I want to be friends with you, because you are so pretty. I heard Mrs. Lynde says you're the prettiest girl of our age in Avonlea."

"Oh, no," Dora protested, as she began twisting Minnie May's hair into two black braids. "I think you are very pretty, and 'sides, you can sing real well."

"Tisn't me - 'tis just Diana. Aunt Jo used to send her to music lessons, and Diana would teach me all the new songs she learned. But she hasn't got time to teach me lately, and Mother says I musn't bother Diana when she's seeing Fred Wright. That's how it is when you're grown up, " Minnie May whispered conspiratorially. " you don't notice anyone but your _young man_."

"Do you think that's how Anne doesn't notice me?" Dora asked. "But she pays attention to Davy." And then Dora proceeded to tell Minnie May all her grievances, and vice versa, and by sunset the two girls were firm friends.

Dora was buoyant when she went home that night. Anne's violent sobs from the east gable made Marilla grim, and even Davy quiet and morose, but nothing could dampen Dora's spirits. She had a friend of her own!


	5. Bold Lasses and Timid Lasses

With Minnie May, Dora could go everywhere in Avonlea that she dared not go on her own. Sometimes they played in the woods and fields beyond Green Gables, but Dora preferred staying indoors. Her best afternoons were spent calling on Mrs. Lynde, to whom the two little girls were favourites. Minnie May would give the good lady her fill of the day's gossip, while Dora asked for help with her patchwork. Dora wanted her patchwork to be nice, and Marilla was not to be consulted on account of her eyesight. Dora felt very secure in having an ally in such a formidable woman as Mrs. Lynde.

"'Sides, her cookie jar's always full, and she makes the best gingersnaps this side of the Island, so Diana says," Minnie May giggled as they went away.

Mr. Harrison was a neighbour of a different breed. Dora shuddered to encounter him. He was always gruff and sarcastic, especially towards little girls. Dora never knew what to say to him and was dreadfully afraid of him. She did not like his tobacco stained verandah and his dirty kitchen any better. But his hired boy, John Henry, invited Davy and Dora and Minnie May over often to see the parrot.

"Ginger's a bully bird, I tell you. He bit a chunk right out of my neck last Monday." John Henry brushed aside his curls to show Davy the wound.

"Say, I'd never let any old bird do that to me." Davy taunted.

"Oh yah! Come over and see if he ain't cussin' yo' pretty face off ." John Henry dared.

Dora was horrified at John Henry's language, and Minnie May had a sinking conviction that her mother would not approve of her acquaintance with John Henry, But Davy was all pleas,

"Come on, girls. We've got to see this parrot. C'mon... I say, John Henry, that you'll never meet anyone more timid than my sister."

"There're timid lasses plenty in Avonlea, and a coupl' brassy bold 'uns too." John Henry chuckled. "Ye'll see fer yerself soon 'nough, Master Davy."  
--

Sometimes they went over the pond to play with Stella Fletcher.

Stella Fletcher was a dauntless girl of Dora's own age, with a thick mane of curly brown hair, canny green eyes, and an aquiline nose. She lived with her grandmother, Mrs. George Fletcher, in a little yellow house beside the Blythe homestead. A old rambling orchard shadowed the house, thick with the Avonlea's only "strawberry apples," and beyond, the graveyard dotted the long sloping hill. The crash of sea-waves could be seen in the distance and Dora secretly thrilled to it, knowing that Paul Irving lived by the shore.

"Let's play a game," Stella proposed, green eyes glittering, as the girls perched themselves in the George Fletchers' barn. Stella climbed onto a keg and lifted the apple-barrel lid, extracting an armful of the coveted "strawberry apples." She passed four around - for herself, Dora, Minnie May, and Lily Sloane.

"The Blythes' - Stella's aunt - is awf'lly famous for these," Minnie May whispered to Dora.

"Hush," Stella commanded. "Now, don't start eating them until I say. Whoever finishes last will have to answer a question I ask."

"A what kind of question?" Minnie May demanded.

"That's for me to say," Stella retorted. "Now, on the count of three..."

Dora bit avidly into her strawberry-apple. It was big and red and luscious; Dora had never tasted anything so delicious in her life. She won the race in five bites, with Stella closely behind. Minnie May tossed her core away a few seconds later, but Lily was still nibbling timidly at the skin of hers'.

"Now, Lily," Stella wagged her finger at her. "Tell us what's the last bad thing you've done."

"What a dull old question." Minnie May whispered aside to Dora.

Lily put down the apple and fingered her frill nervously. "I hadn't done anything bad, ever, Stella!" she cried defiantly.

"Oh, you must've. Everybody does." Stella claimed off-handedly.

"Alright then, I... I dropped the egg-basket down the cellar stairs on Monday." Lily choked back a sob. "Ma was awful mad, and she sent me to bed without supper, but Charlie smuggled a slice of cake up for me." she added with a grateful smile at the memory.

They had another round and the unfortunate Lily lost again. Dora wondered how anyone could be so slow at eating such a delicacy, but she did not say so.

"Tell us what you want most." Stella suggested.

"Oh... nothing." Lily blushed again.

"Sally Bell said she wanted a 'honeymoon' the last time someone asked her that... Miss Shirley asked her that in school last week, actually." Minnie May giggled to Dora.

"I didn't ask you, or Sally Bell." Stella shot at her.

"Well, who says you can do all the asking anyhow?" Minnie May argued.

"Because it's my game."

"Well, that ain't fair."

"Alright: I'll make a new rule. Whoever finishes first gets to ask."

Dora could hardly wait for the next round to eat another apple, but she slowed down her eating this time, because she didn't think she would know what to ask. Then, seeing Lily still pecking at her apple, her pity gave way: Dora nibbled daintily as was her ordinary manner, and savoured her last mouthful long after the others were done.

"You've finished before me," she told Lily, who was still clutching her apple core.

"Why, yes, I have," Lily nodded, putting her core down.

Lily Sloane had come to sit beside Dora in Sunday school last week, when Stella was busy exchanging confidences with Minnie May. Dora and Lily found each other very agreeable. Lily had soft sandy hair and large, fawn-like eyes that goggled was she was nervous or afraid, but Dora liked her very well, perhaps because she was even more timid than Dora herself. Dora felt a little protective, and a little scornful towards her jittery nerves.

"Well, I finished first, so it's my question." Minnie May announced. "And it's going to be a good one, an int'resting one," she tossed at Stella.

The corners of Minnie May's mouth curved up impishly. "Dora: which Avonlea boy would you marry if you had to?"

Lily positively gasped and rolled over in a fit of irrepressible giggles. Stella ignored her, but her eyes flashed dangerously at Dora.

"Don't you _dare_ say Ralph Andrews; 'cause he's my beau. And Jake Donnell is Minnie May's."

"Is not!" Minnie cried with flushed cheeks.

"Is too! I saw him making eyes at you when Sunday School let out."

"Well, I haven't got a beau and I'm not going to have to marry anyone til I'm grown up." Dora answered primly, with nary a blush nor a giggle.

"But if you had to pick one?" Stella pressed.

"Sally Bell told me... Sally told me that her brother Frank said ... "Lily went up in another fit of giggles.

"Out with it!" Stella commanded.

"Sally said that Frank Bell said Dora Keith's the prettiest girl in Avonlea, and he wants her for his girl when he's grown."

"Oh. So Frank Bell is Dora's beau!" Minnie May teased.

"He isn't, either!" Dora grasped Minnie May's wrist with a sudden firmness. "Don't you tell anyone, Minnie May," she whispered fiercely, "but I mean to marry Paul Irving when I'm grown up."

Amid the girls' peals of laughter, Dora thought she heard something stir from the direction of the graveyard hill. Suddenly apprehending who it was, Dora's cheeks went crimson for the first time that night.


	6. An Afternoon at Mr Harrison's

There came an afternoon in late November when the twins were alone at Green Gables. Minnie May was in Carmody and Marilla had gone off on a sick call, so Dora passed time playing with her doll in the Green Gables kitchen. Anne had given her the doll on her birthday, and it was an exquisite thing with nut-brown hair and large sweet eyes, a dress of pink muslin and tiny sateen slippers. Dora had secretly christened her "Paulina Irving," with certain pretenses as to her parentage; but she thought she would tell everyone the doll's name was "Polly" should they ask. But Anne, despite her lavish present, did not ask.

Davy was making mud pies by the barn, and bored. Making mud pies alone was a sorry business, and he had done that far too often over the past weeks. But what else was there to do, with a sister and her girlfriends who would rather spend her afternoons at Mrs. Lynde's, and John Henry away at the Exhibition all week? Life at Green Gables was awfully dull. He thought of all the bully stories John Henry would have about Charlottetown when he returned, and wished that he could brag about something in Avonlea, too. Something exciting had to happen here.

"I'm going over to see Ginger," Davy announced, tracking mud into the kitchen.

"Oh no, not like that, Davy." Dora protested. She laid down her doll reluctantly, tucking away certain lovely daydreams she was having, and found a rag to wipe the mud spots on the floor. Davy watched her for a moment, sighed, and dutifully washed his hands and face.

"All right, we're ready now that we're pre- presentable." Dora declared, taking her twin's hand.

"Presentable to who?" Davy grumbled.

But they set off over the fields together cheerfully. It was a lovely afternoon, warm and mellow for so late in the season, and there was as yet no snow on the ground. The twins hardly needed their wraps. A few lingering birds called from the treetops, but Davy avowed that they were nothing compared to Ginger. He chattered on about the bonfire he was going to build with John Henry. Dora wondered to herself if it was true that Paul Irving wrote po'try. Altogether, they had a very pleasant walk and Dora was almost sorry to arrive at their destination.

"Mr. Harrison's house is as messy as ever," she sniffed her dainty nose in the air, as Davy tried the door. It wouldn't budge, so Davy began to rattle it. "Why, Davy, it's locked!"

"'Course it is," Davy sneered to hide his disappointment. "John Henry 'n' Mr. Harrison have gone to town. Don't you know anything, Dora Keith? Now let's try the windows."

"I didn't know that they were gone away," Dora replied.

A prowl around the house revealed that the windows were bolted down. They could see Ginger in his cage, shrieking "Muuuurder! Robbers! Tramps, oh my!" at the commotion. Davy kicked the kitchen door to make him shout louder.

"Oh, Davy, I think we should stop." Dora pleaded.

"You think, Miss-goody-two-shoes." Davy sneered. Suddenly he had a diabolical inspiration. "Let's go to the barn," he pulled Dora off.

"But.. why?" Dora gasped.

There was a sudden slamming of doors and the sound of latch dropping. Dora found herself alone in the barn. It was dark and musty, it made Dora think of the fairytale Anne had read them last week about a "dark, damp dungeon inhabited by snakes." The wind began to pick up and howl around the barn eerily. "Let me out, Davy Keith!" she shrieked at Davy's dying footfalls. Ginger's cackle of "tramps, tramps, rogues and muderers!" joined her.

Dora hardly knew how she got through the minutes - or was it hours? - that she spent alone in Mr. Harrison's barn. At first she called for Davy, Marilla, Anne, Mrs. Lynde, Minnie May - and finally, Paul! But of course no one heard her. She thought of all the happy hours she had spent playing with Minnie May, and she thought of her little mother, and thought that she was going to die.

There were so many phantom shapes in the darkness. You could see anything in the shadows if you tried. The pitchfork was something left by the grim reaper. The squeaking mice were- mice be - snakes. The haystack was ruffling itself, like a monster unleashing and lurching at her! Dora shut her eyes and flattened herself against the wall, just as she felt something furry against her ankle.

She opened her eyes trepidly. This time, she did not scream, not even when a pair of amber eyes sought hers out from the darkness.

It was a black kitten!

Dora dropped onto the floor in exhaustion and relief. She held the kitten tightly in her lap and sobbed into its clover-scented fur. The mice stopped squeaking, and the wind died down. A few stray sunbeams danced through the cracks in the wood siding. The world did not seem such a terrible place anymore. The kitten purred melifluously in her lap. Presently, Dora heard a voice call her name.

"Anne, Anne!" she cried. She let go of the kitten and scrambled onto a nail keg to be better heard.

Anne unlocked the door and caught Dora up in her arms.

"Oh, Dora, Dora, what a fright you have given us! How came you to be here?"

She carried Dora home with a heavy heart, kissing Dora's hair and chattering soothingly all the way. She helped Dora bathe by the kitchen fire, and then brought her a warm supper in bed.

"Anne," Dora implored. " Davy isn't cruel to me, even when he is bad. He's just my brother." she explained, afraid that Anne and Marilla would punish Davy very severely. "Anne, did you think Davy very wicked today?"

Anne nodded sorrowfully. "It was terrible of him to shut you up, but ever so much more terrible for him to have told falsehoods about it. I'm heartbroken that anyone I love so dearly would lie to me," she choked to herself.

So Davy's loyalty to Anne's friendship mattered more than her own well-being!

"Paul Irving would never act that way. He would never do anything like that to you!" Anne stormed. Dora was straightway comforted by Anne's careless last syllable.

"Anne, do you mean Paul Irving would be good to me?" Dora asked hopefully.

"Paul Irving would be good to anyone." Anne avowed dreamily.

"Anne - Anne - what does he think of me? Does he like me?"

"Who?" Anne asked wonderingly.

Dora buried her face in her pillow in shame. "We were talking about Paul Irving." she mumbled.

"Oh," Anne came back to her senses, "He thinks you're a good, smart little girl, and I'm sure he likes all good little girls very much." Anne kissed Dora firmly on her forehead. "I know you've had such a fright, but everything will be alright now. Good night, Dora."


	7. Dora of Green Gables

Winter set in very late that year, and Mr. Barry was still boiling the pigs' potatoes until the first of December. There had been a wonderful crop that year, and a busy harvest was followed by the livestock auction, but at last George Barry found time to attend to simpler matters. When the year was waning and the twilights cool and starry, Mr. Barry and Jerry Buote got out the old iron pot that had belonged to Matthew Cuthbert's father, and hung it over the circle of stones he had asked Davy and Dora to build. Then they poured in a big batch of potatoes and lit the fire, and Davy poked it with a long stick that sent trailing sparks into the night. Anne came out to sit by the fire and correct her lessons, and Diana to crochet. Minnie May and Dora danced around, hand-in-hand, casting goblin shadows all over the orchard.

"Oh, isn't the world lovely at night?" Anne cried ecstatically.

Dora did not completely agree with her. Ever since her fright in the Harrison barn, she had developed a terror for the dark unknown - although she still went to bed meekly, making sure to fall asleep before it grew completely dark. But here - where she was amongst a circle of friends, it was alright.

Minnie May's kitten purred mellifluously. It was the selfsame midnight black, topaz-eyed creature that had comforted Dora in the Harrison barn, growing rapidly into a plump and cuddly being in its own right. Davy had got her from John Henry Carter and had given it to Dora for an apology, although he swore that he had no use for cats.

"John Henry Carter told me cats belong to the Old Nick," he scoffed, "and anyway dolls and cats are only good for girls."

Dora already loved the little kitten dearly. She knew she wouldn't be afraid of going to bed in the dark if she had a cat for company. "I'm afraid Marilla won't let us keep her. Mrs. Sprotts said she was only taking us 'til the spring." Dora reasoned.

Davy shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "It don't hurt to ask."

But Dora never found the courage to ask. Marilla had no love for animals of any sort and Dora dreaded her grim responses. It was useless for her to avail to Anne. No; Dora reflected, it would be entirely insensible to get overmuch attached to anything at Green Gables if their uncle was going to take them in the spring. Well - anything, except a certain person. She carried the kitten regretfully over to Orchard Slope, and made Minnie May its delighted owner.

--

Then the potatoes were done and Mr. Barry packed away the farm equipment. Winter set in all at once, and very fiercely. Dora woke up one frosty morning to see fat snowflakes falling over the fields. In a few hours they were enveloped in a heavy white blanket and the pond was frozen over. Many a night, the Avonlea young fry turned out for merry hours of skating.

Neither Davy nor Dora had ice-skates, for Marilla did not believe in such superfluities and forbade Anne from spending her lean savings on skates for the twins. Anne did buy a pair of her own, so she and Diana and Gilbert and Charlie Sloane took the twins between them for long "slides." Minnie May and Stella Fletcher whirled ahead in circles. Minnie May was an expert skater and she wove through the group with the grace and agility of a darting chipmunk. Stella rivalled her, pirouetting in loops and jumps that made the Avonlea boys cheer. Lily Sloane sat patiently on the bank, warming her hands in a little beaver muff, breathing in puffs to warm her very red cheeks.

"Come out for a spin?" Gilbert called to her jovially.

"No-no-no, i'm-m sc-a-ared." Lily chattered.

Gilbert returned his attentions to Anne. It was a magical night. The birches on the banks were threaded with ice. There was the click of horse-hoofs on thin ice over the bridge. Impulsively, Gilbert took Anne's hand in his and lead her toward the pier where he had rescued her from her lily-maid foray some years ago. Davy was scraping up a snowball to throw at Stella Fletcher, so Anne jerked Dora along unceremoniously.

Gilbert eyed Dora rather balefully, then softened his glance and began a rollicking whistle. Anne and Dora joined in, singing. The wended their way under the bridge and out into the open, starry night again and again. They "cannoodled" into Diana and Fred who had picked up Davy on their spins. Priscilla and Charlie lagged behind, forced into one another's company. Peals of laughter rang out amongst them.

"I can't imagine there was a time when I wasn't Anne of Green Gables," Anne declared to Gilbert, who agreed heartily.

Dora thought it would be rather nice to be Dora of Green Gables, too, but knowing that she had no imagination, as Anne was wont to say of her - she did not try to imagine so.

--

Spring came rapidly. The misty April days were brief, the showers spent themselves and gave way to the gentle breezes of May. Dora regarded the coming of spring with mixed feelings. In a way, she was glad - she had seen very little of Paul Irving all winter, his grandmother not allowing him to skate or make the long trek up to Green Gables in the snow. To be sure, she saw him every week at church -- perhaps, though neither Anne nor Marilla guessed it, that was why Dora learned her catechism so readily. But she did not know how long she would have left at Green Gables, and the uncertainty rent her days with worry.

One afternoon Mr. Barry began to sow the turnip field.

"How'd you two young scalawags like to come along?" He asked as he hitched up the team. "Come, see the fields a bit - nothing like a nice drive when spring's in the air."

Dora did not like to be called a young scalawag, but she did relish a drive. The twins scrambled in eagerly. They rattled down the lovely, whispering path that was called Lover's Lane, winding through the woods where the brook laughed and gurgled until they reached the old log bridge. Then Mr. Barry turned onto a deep, rutted cowpath, and broke into the open fields.

All of Green Gables spread out before their eyes, then: it was a large, fertile farm of many acres. Dora had never seen it before - she was not inclined to explore on her own, or stray too far from home. Dora had not prepared herself for the feeling of wonder and longing that washed over her.

The many fields ran over the rolling hills - large, tilled fields with rich brown soil ready for sowing, little dimpled fields full of the fragrance of spring flowers, uncleared fields where young spruces sprang up to greet them like eager children, and yellowed pastures by the brook, where doe-eyed cattle peered mildly at them as they passed. But they did not appear mild to Dora, who shrank closer to Davy at the stare of such a large animal. As they crested a hill, the Lake of Shining Waters came into view, with the dunes and salt breath of the open sea beyond.

"It's a fine farm," Davy said affably to Mr. Barry.

"Isn't it, now?" Mr. Barry replied proudly.

Dora said nothing, mute with wonder at the loveliness before her eyes. What a wonderful place on earth Davy and herself had landed in! How dearly she would like to stay here! As she stood there she began to weave a dream, where she would be grown up, Davy would run the Green Gables farm manfully, and Marilla and herself would gather fruit from the orchard year in and year out to bake apple damsons, and - and - and a certain tall, inscrutably handsome Mr. Irving would come up the long lonely lane, and ask her to go for a walk!

The speed with which she had built her castle in the air made herself dizzy. She just wanted so badly to stay here - and such an extreme, unchecked feeling made, instead of bringing any passionate fire into her face, made her turn pale and green.  
Mr. Barry opined that the ride was too rough for her, and told Davy to walk her home.

Davy was eager and energetic and happy from all her saw of Green Gables, and began to tear through the woods. Dora did not really like to run - she thought it was so unladlylike, but did not want to get lost alone, so she went after recklessly. They arrived in the kitchen just in time.

Marilla was getting tea, and Anne was opening the mail to read to Marilla. "Why, here's a letter from Richard Keith saying he can't take the twins until next year! He hopes to be married then."

Davy gave a yelp of joy and rushed to Anne with a bear-hug. Dora, who was out-of-breath and so hot and red-cheeked that she could not even flush with delight, merely sank into her seat. Whereupon Anne opined, once again, that Dora was the most unfeeling child in the world.


	8. A Maiden all Forlorn

Dora was dismayed, when she learned that since the twins were staying at Green Gables for another year, they were to start school in September.

"They're old enough for school now, I daresay - and it'll do Dora good to get out and talk to people other than her own friends. When I sent her to see if John Henry Carter could come over to kill our chicken for Mrs. Morgan's dinner, she came back not fifteen minutes later to tell me John Henry couldn't be found. Now, we know how it would take more than fifteen minutes to look through Mr. Harrison's place. And Mrs. Harmon Andrews ran into her on the road, but Dora barely greeted her. Rachel Lynde says that girl is getting as shy as Matthew."

"Davy will be so happy to have boys his own age to play with." Anne rejoined with clasped hands. "I must hunt him out and tell him."

Accordingly they set out, on the first of September - Davy forward and curious as always, Dora trembling and nervous. She was wont to sink further into herself whenever she was surrounded by those who seemed so self-assured - like Anne, or Davy, or Stella Fletcher. Even Mrs. Lynde, who liked Dora and who Dora liked in return, made Dora nervous whenever she talked to her in public. Dora shuddered to be talked to in such a loud voice, which drew so much attention to herself.

Dora did not feel that way with Minnie May, who was sweet and merry. And she even felt a little superior around poor Lily Sloane, who was so much worse than herself, really - bashful Lily Sloane, who Dora was going to sit with in school because Stella Fletcher had claimed Minnie May. Only Lily Sloane was away for the first day of school, so Anne told Dora to sit in the back row with Mirabel Cotton.

Nothing could be more terrible to Dora as she walked up the aisle alone, and climbed into the high-backed seats of the fourth-graders. Her feet did not touch the ground, and the table was so high that she could barely reach her inkwell. She felt very lost.

Mirabel Cotton was not at all helpful. She was loud and boisterous, and she liked to snicker with the boys, throw pencils behind the teacher's back, and pass notes. In short, she made a lot of noise, and that made Dora feel more uncomfortable than ever. She tossed a crumpled note across to row to Timmy Cotton, but accidentally hit Paul Irving's neck.

Paul Irving, having finished his geometry, was gazing dreamily out the window. Dora was - not - gazing in his direction at all, as one might think she would be, because - well, Paul Irving as the intelligent, gentlemanly hero of Anne's stories was one thing, but Paul Irving in the flesh, as a tall, real-live fifth grader was another. Dora trembled to find him just across the aisle, so did not dare turn in his direction at all. Dora thought she would sink of humiliation when Mirabel's missile hit him, and he looked over resentfully at their table, annoyed to be interrupted from his fair daydreams.

Then he saw Dora, and gave her a sympathetic smile. Dora felt that her world wasn't so bad, after all.

But there was still a lot of it to get through. Mirabel stopped passing notes because she was afraid that Paul Irving would tell on her, teacher's pet that he was. So she began whispering loudly to Dora. Dora, who had been envying Stella and Minnie May their shared seat and confidential conversations half-way across the schoolroom, found that it was a very different matter to whisper secrets with someone like Mirabel. In fact, she didn't feel like whispering much, and would rather study her Royal Reader.

Mirabel thought she would rather like to impress this little primer, so she began on an elaborate tale of her dead Uncle, embellishing it to give more thrills.

"Do you know, Dora, that nearly everyone in our family has died. We Cottons have a habit of dying, just like how the Gillises have a habit of getting husbands and the Pyes have a habit of saying mean things." she said boastfully. "Who knows, I might drop dead in this chair right now for heaven knows what I've caught. We're always catching something."

Dora shuddered. She did not want a dead schoolmate in her seat.

"My grandfather died of galloping consumption, and my grandmother - she died of a broken heart. My Aunt Jane had scarlet fever and Uncle Dick had yellow fever and little Peter Ray, well, he was just their hired boy but he was living with us Cottons when he died, so it counts, and he was poisoned. Aunt Elisa dropped dead when she was dancing with a strange man, and everyone was terrible cut up about it - she was our clan beauty. They tell me I take after her," Mirabel preened. "Unlike my Aunt Angie. She was an ugly girl, and when she grew up she was so ugly that no one wanted to look at her. But what did you think? When they laid her out to be buried - why, Mother says she was a gorgeous corpse! There were young men coming to grandfather's house just to have a look at her. So you see she did credit to the family after all. But you don't want me to tell you about Uncle Alf."

Dora's face was white by this time, and she most heartily did not want to hear about Uncle Alf. Mirabel looked at her expectantly - my, did little Dora Keith looked scared! But she loved to talk about Uncle Alf, so she glared expectantly.

"Uncle Alf?" Dora gasped in a barely audible voice.

"Oh! He was a sea-captain, and ever so handsome, I tell you. All the girls in White Sands were simply wild about him. One of them, I don't know her name, but she was - well, I forget the word, but they were going to get married. But before they could he sailed away to the bahamas and she became real good friends with grandmother, missing him they both were. She was always over at our house. On the night that his vessel was due back there was a big storm, and the lighthouse in the harbour went out. You ever seen a lighthouse? My Uncle Joe ran it before he died, but that was when I was five years old. Anyway, Uncle Alf's boat was lost on the rocks all the while his girl and grandmother were waiting and watching at the shore. Do you wonder she went crazy? His body washed ashore and five days after they buried him, when she was visiting Grandma, she left after dark and who do you think she saw coming up the lane? It was handsome, side-whiskered man - and it was Uncle Alf!"

"Did she - re-really - see him?" Dora chattered. "You said she went crazy."  
Dora added in a whisper.

" 'Course she saw him!" Mirabel said uncomfortably, not liking having her stories questioned. She searched for some proof. "You know, I think that's why we moved to Avonea." she whispered confidentially. "I bet Father must've seen him, because he said he couldn't stand living in our place any longer. Could you bear living in a haunted house, Dora? What would you do if someone dead creep up on you at night? What if a skeleton hid in your closet?"

Dora put her hands to her ears and implored Mirabel to stop. Mirabel did. Dora looked good and scared, and my, that was fun. That should teach Dora Keith never to question her stories again.

Dora had trouble sleeping that night, and her week did not get much better. Lily never came at all that first week, because - as she confessed tearfully to Dora at Sunday School - she was too afraid. Afraid of walking to school alone, afraid of the "big girls," and most of all, of Anthony Pye, who was a fearful bully. So Dora had been left to bear the lion's den aloner.

She was a lonely soul. Sally Bell had started the girls up on playing "ball," and all the girls joined enthusiastically. "Diana told me about playing 'ball,' and it's tremenjusly exciting, Dora!" she breathed. Dora tried to play, accordingly. But she missed the ball three times, and Stella told her angrily that she was "no good." It was voted that Dora had to sit out the rest of the lunch hour.

There were only so many places to sit. The schoolyard was entirely taken up for a playing field, and one could not sit there without getting in the way, or getting hit by accident. There was the woods, but Dora did not like to ruin her dress by sitting in the bush. There was nothing to do but sit on the steps of the school porch, and cry.

Paul Irving, coming to the porch to read, asked: "Whatever is the matter, Dora?"

Dora started when she saw who it was. But there was nowhere else to go. She buried her face and kept on crying.

"Did Mirabel do anything to you?" he asked, kindly. But Dora shook her head - Mirabel hadn't done anything today, except make her uncomfortable - but the discomfort was Dora's own fault.

"Are you finding school very hard?" Dora gave a tiny nod. Well, school was very trying, in more than one way.

"Do you like playing ball?" Paul asked. Dora shook her head most emphatically.

"But they all think it's tremenjusly exciting, everyone 'cept me." she explained tearfully.

"But 'tremenjus' excitements can be very straining," Paul averred. I bet you must be tired out from it. I'm no good at sports myself," Dora now ceased sobbing, and listened with interest. "I like books far better, you see. I'm reading Ben Hur, and I'm at the chariot race, which is far more exciting than ball. Would you like to hear about it?"

Dora would, and Paul read aloud to her for the next quarter of an hour. Then they talked about it- or rather, Paul talked, telling Dora everything he liked and disliked about Ben Hur. Dora listened in an adoring silence, which Paul did not mind. He found her a very sympathetic listener.

It was a habit they kept up for the rest of the year. Whenever the girls and boys were playing sports, they resorted to the porch, or perched themselves on the wood-pile behind the schoolhouse - which, Paul showed to the ecstatic Dora, explaining that it was his favourite hiding spot, far better because it was quieter. Paul brought his books and Dora brought her lessons when she had questions about something in class that she was too timid to ask out loud, or a japanese bookmark to fold - Minnie May had been teaching her how to fold japanese bookmarks. For Dora found it far easier to go to Paul with her sums, than Anne, because Paul listened to her so kindly, whereas Anne's attention was always commanded by Davy. Anne was surprised how diligently Dora came along in her studies, without ever speaking in class!

As for Dora, she found that she liked school very well - and Paul Irving even more!


	9. Secrets

"Anne told us that she had the loveliest adventure yesterday," Dora announced. Paul looked up rather dazedly from his perch and hastily shoved his pencil in his pocket, before offering a hand to help Dora up. She settled herself complacently beside him and was about to go on, when she caught sight of a black notebook with red binding.

"Are you working on something?" she asked curiously.

"No-yes- I mean, no, it's nothing important."

"Were you doing your composition? Anne told Marilla last night that she had assigned a composition on 'An Autumn Walk' to all your class."

"Well - I -- "

"It's alright, if you'd rather finish it. Ralph Andrews asked Frank Bell to tell Sally Bell to see if I wouldn't make one of the new folded bookmark for his sister, Gracie Andrews. She's two years older'n me, you know. I can work on that while you go on." Dora decided practically.

So Paul spread his notebook on his knees and scribbled furiously once more; and Dora, glancing occasionally from her flying fingers, thought that the short blocks of text on Paul's page looked little like a composition. But what did she know about fifth grade compositions? Paul, she was sure, knew just what he was doing.

At length Paul closed his book and gazed lovingly at the cover. "Dora, it's awful nice of you to make a bookmark for Gracie." he hesitated.

Dora beamed. Her very soul seemed to take wings under Paul's praise. In a life where she had met with so little sympathy and spoken approval, Paul's commendation made all her world glow like a garden in bloom. She thought this was the height of life for her - and she thought she would strive for the rest of her life to live up to his high regard of her.

"They're real popular." she explained, then blushed at her immodesty. "I'll make you one if you want." she added boldly.

Paul seemed very pensive. "You promised to make Gracie's first, so you should." he said gently, but Dora thrilled to some sensitive note vibrating in his voice. Dora smiled again, rather stupidly.

"You had something to tell me." Paul reminded her, trying to quell the hot blush he suddenly felt on his face.

"Oh, yes." Dora cried happily. "Well - Anne and Diana got lost in the woods on Saturday - but nothing dreadful happened to them, but they found an old stone house, and an old lady who lived in it. And they had tea with her. Marilla said she was engaged to somebody years ago twenty-five years old, but she has lived by herself so very out-of-the-way ever since, and I can't remember her beau - I mean, her old beau's - name."

"That sounds like something just out of a storybook," Paul exclaimed. "How far away was the Stone house? D'you reckon we could find it?"

"Oh - it was far, I think, down near Grafton. That's where Anne and Diana were going anyhow that day."

"Oh."

"I know, it's too bad. We would never be allowed to go that far unless Anne took us." Dora thought momentarily that it was unlikely Anne would bring her anywhere so intriguing, but she turned her thoughts to more optimistic channels. "Wouldn't it be lovely to meet Miss Lavendar?"

"Is that her name?"

"Yes -- Miss Lavendar Lewis, and Anne said she had a girl living with her called 'Charlotta the F-"

"I think I've heard that name before." Paul said suddenly.

"Does Young Mary Joe know her?" Dora knew all about Paul's grievances with Mary Joe, the Irvings' French hired girl. "But Charlotta isn't French, I don't think, Marilla said she was a Bowman."

"No..." Paul ruminated. "I've heard, or seen it somewhere... perhaps Grandmother told me? But no, she couldn't have, she hates gossip and she sends me out of the room if I can hear anyone gossiping. I can't think who Miss Lavendar is, but I have a feeling I know something about her."

For once, Dora's calm blue eyes were agog with interest.

The bell rang, and they had almost crossed the schoolhouse threshold when Paul remembered. "I think there's a picture of her at Grandmother's. I have father's old room, you see, and I was cleaning the bureau once and there was as box of father's things. I opened it to see what was inside. There were pictures and letters. Grandmother was very angry that I was meddling in things that weren't mine, and she took the box away to the attic, but I know which trunk she put it in, and if I get a chance I'm going to find it tonight."

"So Miss Lavendar must have known your father," Dora mused. "I wonder if she is any relation to you."

"Perhaps! Perhaps, she's an estranged cousin or aunt, and that is why Grandmother doesn't want me to know --"

"Oh, wouldn't it be lovely if you had an aunt who loved you --"

"and understood me, like Teacher,"

"Oh, Paul, I'd like to see what she looked like."

They were whispering now, having entered the schoolroom.

"Why, Dora. Ask Teacher if you can't come home with me after school to-day so's we can look for it."

With that pact, they separated to their seats. Dora could hardly wait for the afternoon to pass.

---

It was a long walk down to the rock shore for Dora's seven-year-old legs. Twice they had to pause and rest in a stumped field. The first was just beyond the Andrews' beech woods, which were quivering with gold and crimson. Dora was delighted by a bluebird that seemed to trill as if it were spring, and Paul spun a story about it for her on impulse. She was so appreciative of his fancies that Paul wondered if he could tell her-- no, he hadn't shown anyone that, not even his dear Teacher. But maybe he could introduce her to the Rock people.

They came out beyond Mr. Blythe's spruce belt the second time, and Dora could feel the salt breath of the sea keenly on her face. The gulf with its roaring waves, was just beyond the hollow.

"I live there," Paul pointed to a white house in a cove off the Shore Road. Dora had only been to the sand dunes on the far side of the Lake of Shining Waters once; she had never explored the dark red cliffs of the rock shore. "We'll go there afterwards," Paul promised. "and maybe we'll meet --"

"Who?" Dora asked eagerly.

"I don't know if we'll meet them." Paul said pensively, but the mystery only heightened Dora's excitement.

Grandmother Irving was away, but Mary Joe had prepared a delicious tea for them. Because Dora was company, and because she was so dainty and polite, Mary Joe brought out the gooseberry preserves for them, although she would not be persuaded the open the shortbread tin as she had done for "Teacher."

"It's quite alright," Dora told her offhandedly. "I'm not half so fond of shortbread as Anne."

After tea, they were torn between going to the attic to rummage, and going to the shore. Dora wanted badly to know who they might meet. Paul stammered, and said he thought they should prowl in the attic before Grandmother came home. Dora supposed Paul knew best, since he was older than her, and he lived here, so with a dainty sigh, she resigned herself to his wishes.

Dora was secretly terrified of garrets, in all their dimness, with their store of cobwebby relics. Well, she was with Paul and she was sure that Paul would... wouldn't let _anything_ happen to her. She tiptoed cautiously behind up up the garret stairs, and was surprised to see that the Irving garret was a neat, clean apartment with only Mrs. Irving's great weaving loom in one corner, a neat row of chests under the eaves, and an old sofa by the window that faced the sea. Late afternoon sunlight filled the corners. There was nothing spooky about the Irving attic.

"Grandmother's a great hand at throwing things out," Paul explained. "She detests mess and clutter. I've heard that when Grandmother came here as a bride the garret was full of all the Irvings' old things. Grandmother had a row with my Great-Grandmother Irving but she finally got her way, and had a grand cleaning. I wish she hadn't. I would have liked to see all the treasures that the other Irvings have left behind."

Dora didn't care very much for sentimental trophies and disagreed. But she felt sickeningly disloyal to Paul for siding with Grandmother Irving, so she said nothing.

"Here - Grandmother daren't touch father's old things, of course, because she hopes father will come back for them one day. They say it broke her heart when he went away to Boston, but I'm glad he did, for he couldn't have met my little mother otherwise, and then, there wouldn't be me, you see."

Dora was grateful she could agree with Paul again: of course she was glad there was a Paul.

They rifled through the old chest, lifting aside a few conch shells and a broken fishing rod. There was a yellowed hankerchief of cobwebby lace and a musky fragrance, with the initials L. L. monogrammed into the corner. They did not try to read Stephen Irving's journal, but when they pulled out an envelope addressed to Paul's father, something hard fell out. Dora caught at the glint of gold on the floor, and opened her palm to reveal a thin gold ring.

"How odd - I mean, lovely," Dora struggled for a word as he gazed at Paul in wonderment.

"It's very intriguing." Paul puzzled. He had found the painted miniature and held it up to Dora in the sunset light. A ray fell athwart a girl's face: a girl in the bloom of youth, with soft brown eyes and apple cheeks, and an aureole of fair hair. She was not extraordinarily beautiful, but there was something very sweet in her face, as if she had been truly happy every day of her life. Why, even the corners of her lips were quirked up in dimples!

"She's just as sweet as Diana Barry." Dora decided.

"Yes, but there's something more to her," Paul surveyed the portrait critically. "Look at her eyes, and the way she smiles. She looks as if she had discovered a wonderful secret and could tell you if you asked. I wish I could have this portrait to keep beside my little mother's-- then I wouldn't--"

Paul hesitated here. He was a very sensitive and honest boy, but even the most earnest of ten-year-old boys do not like to admit to a girl that they are afraid of going to bed alone in the dark. Which was most unfortunate, because Dora could have sympathized with him entirely on that score.

"I wonder how her portrait came to be among your father's things. And this ring..." Dora slipped it on her finger. It was a small ring, a young girl's jewellery; it reminded her of the silver band Mrs. Lynde liked to turn over on her finger when she was quilting, or more frequently when she was complaining to Marilla about her husband's health.

"Paul? I think p'rhaps they were sweethearts."

"Who?"

"Your father and Miss Lewis."

"Oh - " Paul struggled with the notion for a moment. "I don't think they can be, no. I'm sure father only loved my little mother."

There was another pregnant moment when Dora hated herself for thinking something Paul disliked. It seemed that her suggestion hurt Paul.

"Come," she said, tucking her hand into his soothingly. "Let's go down to the shore. Isn't there someone you said we might meet?"

"I - I suppose. Dora," he turned to her earnestly, "Would you still be my friend if I told you a great secret?"

"Why, of course." Dora thrilled to be entrusted with one of Paul's secrets.

"And you won't - you won't tell Davy?"

"I would never!"

"Or - or Minnie May, or anyone at school? Or Marilla? And you promise you won't laugh?"

Dora had a dreadful moment of fear. "You haven't done anything... bad?" she whispered incredulously.

Paul looked miserable enough to have been bearing a heavy burden for months. "No, but you see, I daresay they would think I'm dreadfully queer."

"I don't think you're queer, Paul. And I'd like you an awful lot even if you are."

"Well - alright. I'm going to take you to meet the Golden Lady and the Twin Sailors, and Nora, too, but I can't promise that you'll see them."


	10. Shores of the Imagination

They clambered down the red cliffs towards the boulders where the sea-waves were crashing. Dora had discarded her buttoned boots and white stockings at the house, so as not to ruin them, but her soles were white and tender and she had never done much scrambling in her life. For all her primness, though, she was no sissy, moreover, she was determined to play on the shore, and her will amounted to wonders, as quiet people's often do. She chose her footing carefully, selecting rocks that could bear her weight. She was not really scared. She couldn't be when she was with Paul. And when they at last scrambled onto a large, striped rock, Paul held out his hand for her and she fell into his half-hug with a great thrill. Her heart was pounding, and it was not from fear.

Oh, it was nice, to sit here with the salt-spray on her cheeks and the sun on her bare feet, and Paul just beside her!

Presently Paul sprang to his feet, his face transfigured. He raised his hand in a sailor's salute.

"They're here!" he cried.

"The Twin Sailors - there they are, drifting towards us in a ship with a sail made of moonshine. I think that's the youngest twin waving at us - oh, Dora, Dora, won't you wave back? The youngest twin is nice, and you needn't be scared of him, not like the older one."

"Who? Where?"

"There, Dora! There in the glinting trail of sunlight. Look how the white sails gleam. The inside is all gleaming, too, yes, pearly and rainbowy like the inside of a mussel shell. I've been in it once. You could go to the ends of the world in it."

"And where's that?" Dora asked. She wasn't sure what Paul meant.

"Oh - " Paul looked deflated for a moment "well, the oldest twin's taken me into the heart of the sunset once."

"Oh Paul, but nobody can go into the sunset. It just fades when you walk towards it. I've tried. Only I didn't try for very hard, I suppose, because it got darker and darker and I was afraid of getting lost in the Haunted Wood. Maybe it's easier on water..." Dora was dubious.

Paul picked up a flat piece of rock and tossed it at the waves. It skipped.

"Oh, Dora," he sighed. "You're just not that kind who can see them. This all isn't really true, you know. It's only my imagination."

The immense disappointment in his voice made Dora want to cry. She felt that she had failed him in some occult way. She didn't really understand what he was talking about, but she felt deficient, as if her true self had come to light and she was found wanting.

"I-magination?" she queried. "Anne's got one. So is she _that kind_? D'you mean - can she see your ship and sailors?" A fresh wave of jealousy and pain blanched her.

"Yes- and no." Paul meditated. "I don't think she could see my rock people. I think I'm the only one who can see them."

They slipped off the striped walks and waded to a pebbled beach around the headland. The sea-breezes caressed Dora's hair and cheeks, but the delight she felt earlier that afternoon had left her. The beauty of the tall sandstone cliffs, and the white, gleaming beach was lost on her, but apparently Paul was alive to it. He held out his hand to her and whirled her about on the sand, quoting

"COME unto these yellow sands,  
And then take hands:  
Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd,—  
The wild waves whist,—  
Foot it featly here and there;  
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear."

Dora had a feeling this afternoon should've been the loveliest thing that happened to her, but she was still riddled with self-torture. Paul was telling her about the lovely lady who frequented this cove, with long black hair and dark eyes, who knew all the secrets of the sea. Dora hadn't any idea what he meant, and it made her feel incredibly stupid.

Further on there was a great sea-cave that Paul wanted to show her. "I think we'll reach it before the tide turns, if we hurry." He took her hand again and they scrambled over the rocks. They arrived at a sea-cave with a small entrance. Water lapped furtively on its bank. Long streaks of seaweed dangled over its mouth, and Dora thought that it must be very dark inside. She shuddered, and slipped her hand out of Paul's. She turned around and stared numbly into the sun on the horizon.

"What's the matter?" Paul asked. "You aren't scared, are you?"

"Who are you going to see in that cave?" she asked warily.

"The Golden Lady lives in here, with a golden harp on which she plays the songs of the sea. You will hear her music even if you can't see her. And you will see something wonderful of your own in here, Dora, you really will."

He made her close her eyes and drew her into the cave, carefully steering her. Dora was torn between terror and a blind trust in Paul. She felt the slime of the seaweeds on her face, the cold, damp stone, something skidding past her toes, but she did not open her eyes. Then Paul pushed her down onto a bench of stone.

"You can look now."

Dora had never seen or imagined anything like this. Light bounced off the walls of the cave in every direction, leaving long, prismatic rays in the air. It was impossible to tell where the light came from, for there it was to her right and left, as she looked up into the dome of the cave and into the corner recesses, weaving wonderful and mysterious patterns in the dimness. Dora gasped in sheer delight, and then she heard it: a sibilant humming, like that of the waves lapping on the shore, surrounded her. It resounded off the walls of the cave and filled her with awe.

"Shhh. Can't you hear it?"

Paul nodded. "It's what I imagine is the Golden Lady at her harp."

Dora nodded, too. She could stay here and listen forever. Maybe she was begining to see what Paul meant after all.

"Paul," she asked timidly. "Do you still like me?"

" 'Course I like you, Dora. I haven't any other friend who listens so well as you. You're a kindred spirit, like Teacher would say."

"Even if I'm not_ that kind_?"

"It isn't your fault you haven't any imagination, Dora Keith."

Dora pondered on that. She didn't seem completely satisfied.

"I think I should like to have an imagination." she declared.

Paul studied the light in the cave, the Golden Lady of his imagination, and the little golden damsel beside him with her warm hand in his. "I think," he said solemnly, "that we must cultivate your imagination."

Dora didn't quite know what that meant but she liked the sounds of that so much better.

* * *

They lingered in the Golden Lady's cave for so long that the tide had begun to come in. Dora was the one who first noticed the waning gleams of light, and the trail of water on the floor. She woke Paul from his reverie.

"We have to get out now!" he cried with real panic in his voice.

The hurried out of the cave and waded across the beach. The water had nearly risen above the rocks on the headland.

"We - can't - get - pass." Paul waved her back, trying to steady his voice. He must not be frightened for Dora's sake. But it was no better being trapped on Andrew's Cove. The hem of Dora's dress was already damp; he had heard Young Mary Joe say that girls could get sick that way. His flailed about desperately for an escape route.

"Dora, do you think you could reach that ledge?" He scrambled up on an toppling rock and aimed for a shelf that jutted out of the sea wall. He pulled Dora up with him. From there they found a steep, slippery path that came out on the Shore Road.

"My, that was an adventure." Dora said calmly.

"Yes," Paul panted, squatting down on the side of the now dark road. "And we're miles away from home and grandmother will be so angry, and I could've gotten you drowned."

"Well, you didn't. You saved my life." Dora remarked still more complacently. How could Paul guess that she was not at all frightened because she was with him!

"Look, Dora," he said frustratedly. "I don't know where we are at all. We must be miles and miles down the shore road 'cause I don't recognize this part. I don't know how we'll get home. We'll have to walk, but it could be hours and it's so dark."

"Well, we're together. I don't think I really mind, Paul."

Paul sighed again. But was he sighing to counter her eternal cheerfulness, or because it was a terrible responsibility to have such implicit trust placed in him? He was very tired from their long adventure, and at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be delivered into safety.

Not all wishes are granted, but Paul's was.

"Paul, there's someone coming down the road." Dora confided. Paul remembered that she was shy around strangers.

"We'll have to shout at them- they mightn't see us. Shout your loudest."

They shouted themselves hoarse, and a buggy screeched to a stop inches from their feet. Someone shone a light at them. It was Gilbert Blythe!

"Dora Keith and Paul Irving! What in heavens name are you doing out here, all in the dark?" he exclaimed.

"We were at Andrews' cove and we got caught by the tide." Dora babbled. "And Paul found a way up through the rocks and spruce barrens, and he saved our lives, but not we're miles off and we might never get to Green Gables if you hadn't come along."

Paul was impressed by this long string of words Dora had put together.

"You'll take her back to Green Gables, won't you, Gilbert?" Paul asked anxiously. While they were explaining, Gilbert had already whisked them into the buggy and tucked them under a wool blanket against the chilly evening air: that was one of the nice things about Gilbert Blythe, he thought of everything you needed and did it for you without asking.

"I'm taking you both home ask fast as Silverspot'll go. I was just on my way back after a school meeting - I'm boarding at home until the roads get so bad that I can't drive to White Sands, you see. Dora Keith, did you come all the way from Green Gables barefoot?"

"No'm, my shoes are at Paul's Grandmothers."

"Alright, then we're going there and getting Mary Joe to give you a hot supper, and then I'll drive you home. We can send Pacifique to tell Marilla you'll be home soon."

Gilbert lingered in the Green Gables kitchen to tell Anne all about Dora's misadventures after he had put Dora to bed, at Dora's insistence.

"To think she wasn't a bit frightened to be on the shore all on their own, the poor darling!" Anne was genuinely surprised. "I hope Davy will see how gallantly Paul saved his sister and behave as a gentleman should towards him, from now on."

"I don't think Paul was any braver than Dora. She has as much credit for getting them out of the scrape as he does." Gilbert said matter-of-factly.

"Oh," Anne's shining eyes turned on his. "You don't understand. Any girl would be thrilled to be rescued from a watery grave by a gallant knight. Dora's heart will be indebted to Paul forever. _I just know._ Of course, Avonlea _men_ sometimes have too little imagination to think of such things." she added scornfully.

"Sometimes," Gilbert told her with an amused twinkle - for he remembered how Anne had floated own The Lake of Shining Waters in a leaking dory, and how she lived to tell the tale, "I think your imagination limits people."

Gilbert had a point. But with regards to the susceptibility of maiden hearts, Anne was right.


	11. Dreamer of Dreams

Paul Irving was a dreamer of dreams. As far back as he could remember, his existence had been coloured by an awareness of-- something-- that other people lived their whole lives without seeing. He was a lonely boy, so those other people pronounced in pitying syllables, but if you asked Paul himself, he would tell you that he had never ever felt lonely. He had been a solitary child in a Boston mansion, and then equally solitary in an out-of-the-way homestead by the shore in Avonlea, but in imagination he had travelled the galaxies with companions more vivacious and varied than you could ever meet in Avonlea. So he was very satisfied with his small world. Armed with a passport to fairyland, you could be happy anywhere.

Until he had met Dora, though, he had never had a real friend. Oh, there was Teacher, whom he loved very dearly, and of course Father, whom he loved best in the world. They were his chums as well as his favourite people (you couldn't call Grandmother a chum although he loved her dutifully), but they were adults. Just last summer he had heard Young Mary Joe complain "dat Paul, ee never plays with boys 'is own age, so dat is why ee eez so queer." He didn't like to be called queer, and the boys at school were alright but they did laugh at his big words and bookish ways. He knew he could never talk to them about anything he was really thinking. And then entered Dora Keith, who listened so adoringly to his every word. Even when he told her of his dearest fancies, she had not laughed once, or called him queer.

She was worth a dozen boys!

Her one fault, which distressed her so, was that she had no imagination. Paul had never thought he could be friends with someone who was not "that kind", the kind who dreamed. Friendship, though, is a capricious thing: two souls can connect without resembling one another in the least. So it was with Paul and Dora: each was the first floating spar in the other's life.

"Paul is trying to cultivate my imagination," Dora told Minnie May importantly one morning as they walked to school. "I think he's finding it a trying task, even if he doesn't say so. We read the loveliest story books together, and then he makes up something wonderful out of his own head, and he tells me to try to do so too. I try my hardest, but I can never come up with anything. I am just too stupid."

"You mean he's teaching you to tell lies?" Minnie May asked bluntly. Minnie May knew the history of the Haunted Wood they were traversing that very minute. "You know Mother doesn't approve of stories at all and she says Miss Shirley teaches us far too many things that aren't true. Oh, Dora, it's wicked to tell stories."

Dora was mollified and Paul had to try a different tack. Two days later, Dora was watching the path so intently as they walked to school that Minnie May asked her if she was pretending to look like a Sloane.

"Oh, no," Dora took her eyes off the peeling bark of a silver birch. "Paul's told me to look for something beautiful in nature, that we could imagine things about. He can talk to the trees and flowers for hours, you see, but all for all I can tell these are just plain stumps and moss, and there's nothing so special about them."

"Oh, talking to trees is it? I used to do that myself. I like the woods real well and it seemed a shame not to talk aloud in them, so long as everything I said was true." Minnie May admitted with a grin.

She scanned the ground keenly, and plucked a spray of holly. "Take this, isn't this nice? I bet they didn't have anything half so nice in the States where Paul came from. The little red berries make me think of rubies, like some fine lady came by and dropped her jewels in the snow. If you'd asked me for help, Paul wouldn't have stumped you for something from the woods to talk about."

So even Minnie May was better at this than she was! Dora took the holly, but she could not spin a yarn about it any more than stones could speak.

-----

Paul was surprised one lunch hour when Dora came into the woodshed, her cheeks stung crimson from the blowing snow.

"i had a dream," she breathed excitedly. "And I think you'll approve. You see, I dreamed there was an old woman who lived alone for ever so long in the woods, waiting for her lover to return, but he didn't."

"And then?"

"Then she died. It was tremenjusly romantic." Dora concluded placidly.

Paul twisted the pencil in his mittened hand meditatively.

"That would make a lovely story," he said at last, "if only you imagined more into it. See, was the woman beautiful long ago, when she knew her lover? What was her house in the woods like: is it a cold, desolate villa or a cozy hut? Why had her lover left her?"

"Of course she was beautiful." Dora retorted, rising to the bait at once. "That was why her lover loved her. She has apple-cheeks and red, red lips like Diana Barry, and a coil of golden hair 'round the crown of her head, like how Ruby Gillis wears hers."

"Is she proud?" Paul asked, trying to picture the fair lady.

"She could be. If so, then she lives in an old house all alone, a _haunted_ one." Dora added, pleased with her dramatic touch.

"Haunted by her memories," Paul agreed. "She'll have cherry trees in her yard but to her they'll be slim white ghosts of memory, and there'll be rose-bushes that have never bloomed since her lover left her."

"And she'll walk around in the garden wearing nothing but stiff, starched black dresses and a bonnet."

"And there'll be an old well, vine-hung and lichened, which she looks into every morning and is haunted by her aging reflection - having broke every mirror in the house when her lover deserted her because her beauty made her bitter - and in which she finally jumps into and drowns."

"Stop!" Dora shouted. "You're scaring me."

Over the weeks they refined the story. The old woman was really a princess - it didn't matter when you were imagining things, that there weren't any real princesses on P. E. Island. They christened her Princess Eleanora. She had been changed at birth by an old nurse. Her lover was a gentleman from Kingsport (Paul wanted him to be Bostonian, but Dora declared that they weren't having ant Yankees in the story), whose family thought she was beneath his station, and called him away before he could marry her. For the rest of his life they prevented him from coming back. So Princess Eleanora wasted away day by day, until she was as a ghost beyond recognition. She never knew that her lover had truly loved her, and still treasured all the mementoes she had given him: her lace hankerchief from their first dance together, a locket with her portrait in it, and the engagement ring he never had the chance to give her.

"Then his family tries to make him marry another girl, but he can't because he loved _her_ so." Dora decided.

"No, he marries again, and has a happy life, although he never forgets her."

"He wouldn't! That would be so terribly unfair to her!"

"She is the tragic heroine, and I think it's more striking if he is happy and she isn't."

Dora began to sniffle. "I feel so sorry for her, Paul!" she whispered.

"Hush.. Princess Eleanora isn't really real, you know."

Dora shook her head vehemently.

"We don't know any one just like her, Dora. You only read of princesses and stories like that in books. 'Sides, we'll have his family find out she was a princess after all, and then they'll make him come back. And everyone will be happy?"

Only much later did Dora realize that they had woven the story around tidbits they had heard of Miss Lavendar Lewis. Then, she guiltily began to pray for the latter -tragic heroine, hag and damsel-in-distress of their own make-belief-'s deliverance.


End file.
